


Silken

by kidcarma



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Choking, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Formalwear, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Servant, Possessive Sex, implied violence/poisoning/death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcarma/pseuds/kidcarma
Summary: The gloves were never something he’d questioned. From day one, Kamukura had worn them for nearly every occasion. They leave a sliver of skin peeking out from under the cuff of his sleeve, and Komaeda shudders even just looking at the inch of flesh, let alone the thought of touching it.He knows Kamukura wouldn’t tolerate it.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 14
Kudos: 183





	Silken

**Author's Note:**

> i will forever associate glove kink with the 1920s prohibition au by quickyoke and perrstein from about 4 years ago, which... isnt even danganronpa, but i must say this piece is somewhat influenced by that series. the power of glove kink.
> 
> in any case! i hope you enjoy.

They’ve hijacked the manor from its original host, but nobody else needs to know that- the guests are oblivious to a corpse strung up in one of the guest rooms, blood spattering the ornate carpet and curtains in all its vivid hues, left to dry and crust over as the party goers drown themselves in alcohol. By the time the body is found, Kamukura suspects, it will have begun to rot- not because it will be particularly difficult to find, but because the array of corpses scattering the tiled ballroom and grand foyer floors will take priority- and the despairs will be long gone. 

Kamukura steps easily across the white marble, golden grout underneath soles of his shoes, Komaeda trailing behind him. Despite holding significance over the other attendees- what with their relationship to the new party host, Enoshima had all too eagerly assigned herself the role and nobody felt the need to challenge it- the two are still easily swallowed by the thick of the crowd. Swelling like an ocean wave, Komaeda twists his fingers into the back of Kamukura’s blazer in order not to be separated, not to be lost, at least, until Kamukura guides them out of the most crowded bits, and he is finally able to breathe once they come to a halt by the banquet table. 

“Apologies,” Komaeda hits him with a broad smile, though his hand trembles as he reaches out to smooth the fabric, creased from where he’d been gripping it. 

His voice is audible over the idle chatter and the warming up of the band- a single note, growing louder and more steady in its tone- though just barely, Komaeda knows that Kamukura hears him all the same. If he is at all bothered, which Komaeda doubts, he makes no move to express it. Simply allows Komaeda to smooth over his misstep, and says nothing more. 

Well, it’s not a misstep, per se. Komaeda reminds himself of that much, his attention flickering briefly from Kamukura over to the assortment of luxurious foods, no doubt some of them laced with poison, and then back to Kamukura. 

Though dressed in his usual suit and tie, Kamukura is far more appetizing than any of the refreshments at the party. That much, Komaeda is certain of, despite only having glanced at the spread. He would much rather be in Kamukura’s private company for the evening than be subjected to the ruckus of such a formal event, but Enoshima had insisted upon his attendance. She knows he prefers quiet spaces, and roping him into this cesspool of noise is just another one of her subtle ways of inflicting despair into his life, or at least, he suspects as much. 

It isn’t something he feels the need to confirm with Kamukura though, for whatever the reason Enoshima is dragging them all along, it doesn’t really matter. Because they’re here now, and once the gates close, the monokuma guards set to patrol every exit, preventing anyone from leaving, and he knows they wouldn’t be exempt from the same bloody fate as all the nobodies, even if they tried. 

Kamukura would be able to leave, if he truly wanted to. But from experience, Komaeda knows the inconvenience of going through all that trouble just to leave, isn’t worth it to Kamukura. 

And so Komaeda is stuck here for the night. 

He turns to Kamukura and opens his mouth, intent on at least trying to entertain, when he notices Kamukura’s attention isn’t on him at all. His gaze is, instead, directed on the figure making her way across the floor, and Komaeda snaps his jaw shut, wide smile instinctively overtaking his features. 

“Isn’t this like, awesome or what?” Enoshima’s grin rivals his own, wolfish and sharp, as she approaches Kamukura with her arms splayed wide, gesturing to the scene around them as though she were directly responsible for its happenings, and not for swiping in to steal credit at the last second. 

“It is certainly grandiose,” Kamukura tilts his head. 

She’d gone all out with what she could- it wasn’t a chore to enforce formal wear, as everyone had been willing to go along with it, but she’d made it a point to stuff Komaeda into the suit herself. Finely manicured claws buttoning up his shirt, insisting he wear all white, cackling when he had the audacity to complain that the maroon bow tie she’d adorned him with had been fastened too tightly. That at least it looked classier than the collar he never went without if he could help it, the collar that she’d made him ditch, and called it tacky. 

There was nothing tacky about the way the cold metal around his neck kept him anchored, a proud display of devotion to Kamukura, who always kept the key tucked away in his pocket. 

But Komaeda hadn't vocalized as such. 

He had simply let her trade the collar in favor of the bow tie, and the weight of that chokes him, when he stands next to them both. And has to wonder if it’s even a question of where his loyalties lie. 

“Is that all you have to say?” Enoshima whines, and Komaeda flinches when she slings her arm around Kamukura’s shoulder, jostling him. “After all the hard work I put into setting this up?” 

“Yes.”

Her giggle isn’t contagious. 

“You really are cold. How despairing!” 

He plucks her arm off and away without flourish, a gloved hand encircling her wrist and deftly lifting it- and for just a second, Komaeda feels a wash of vexation overtake him, knowing Kamukura has the right to touch whoever he chooses, but selfishly wishing the silk covering his fingers was reserved for Komaeda and Komaeda alone- careful not to disturb the glass of wine in her grasp.   
Not that it matters much, when she’s settled back into her personal space, she takes to swirling the deep red liquid around in the bowl. 

“Though I suppose that’s to be expected,” she laments, gazing longingly into her cup. “You’re not easy to impress.” 

Taking a sip, she downs the dry, bitter drink with a sigh. Her lipstick leaves no print on the rim, and only Kamukura notices because he is watching with a critical eye, dipping out of the way just in time and pulling Komaeda with him as she suddenly flicks her wrist, splashing the rest of her wine in their direction. 

Komaeda is only able to manage a startled sound as he is jerked by the harsh movement, doesn’t question it aloud though is still grateful, as his eyes fall to the puddle of red liquid running thin along the tiled floor, he knows just how badly that would have stained his suit. 

“Damn!” Enoshima swears, throwing her empty glass to the floor where it shatters, attracting the attention of the surrounding crowd. Though, they pay little mind to the glass beneath her heels, splintering with a crunch as she waves a waiter over. Her appearance is far more intriguing- meant to be, to distract, to lure. Dress bright red and plunging deeply down her chest, it is something akin to a warning sign. Highly toxic, poisonous, Komaeda thinks as she reaches over to swipe a glass of champagne from the offered tray. Strikingly colored, the perfect message to stay as far away as possible, yet somehow it’s impossible to look away. 

Blinking himself from his thoughts, Komaeda notices that Kamukura has reached to take a glass as well, gripping the stem of the champagne flute delicately to avoid getting condensation on the fabric of his gloves. Fumbling, Komaeda follows his lead, grabbing a glass for himself, only for Kamukura to pluck it from his hands and hand it to a passerby, who accepts it without question and throws the drink back with a laugh. 

Once the stranger is out of earshot, a hand falls to his lower back and Komaeda shudders, Kamukura’s voice a wash of breath across his cheek. 

“He will be dead within the hour.” 

Komaeda swallows thickly. 

“Kamukura is so kind, sparing me from such a horrid death,” Komaeda chuckles, turning his head ever so slightly in Kamukura’s direction as he speaks, though fearing if he moves any more, the hand on his back will withdraw the gentle touch. “You really shouldn’t waste y-“

“Jeez,” Enoshima cuts through them, wrinkling her nose and Kamukura steps back, furthering the distance between them. “Get a fucking room.” 

Kamukura sips idly on his champagne, as though considering the suggestion, then presses the half empty glass into Komaeda’s hands with a nod. 

“What an excellent suggestion.”

He hooks his arm around Komaeda’s own, tugging him along who goes without complaint, too fast for Enoshima to do anything except register the fact that her sarcasm has been taken at face value, and her eyes widen, only to scowl. 

“Find me later!” she calls over the crowd accusingly. “I’m not done with you.” 

Komaeda is all too happy to turn his attention to Kamukura as they make their getaway, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the sound of a nameless body crumpling to the floor in a heap and the gaps of shock that follow. 

Kamukura leads him up the grand staircase, taking a moment to pause when they’re three fourths of the way  
to allow Komaeda to gaze up in awe at the chandelier that has managed to catch his eye. The hanging crystals throw flecks of light across the walls and ceiling, and as Kamukura adjusts his hold on Komaeda’s arm to begin tugging him along again, he tells Komaeda in a hushed tone “it will fall, by the end of the night.” 

As he’s guided away from the crowd, the people thinning out and Kamukura’s pace slowing, Komaeda takes a contented sip of the champagne in his hands. The carbonation stings, though it’s not unpleasant. 

“Aren’t we meant to be mingling?” Komaeda asks, Kamukura tugging him further down the hall, turning sharp corners and the voices in the main foyer grow further away and hushed. “Enoshima said-“

“Mingling is boring,” Kamukura cuts him off. “I have no interest in making dull conversation with nameless faces who will be dead before the sun rises.” 

“Ah. Of course.” 

A brief silence falls over them, but it is short lived. When Kamukura seems to have settled on a room for the two of them to occupy, twisting the handle silently and pulling Komaeda inside, he can’t help but open his mouth again. 

“Still, isn’t it exciting?” Komaeda grins, pink spreading over his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. “I can only imagine the sort of hope that will bloom from this. Every corpse on the ground is just one step closer to a shining-“

Kamukura flicks the light on, closes the door behind them, then promptly cages Komaeda up against it, his back pressed into the ornately carved wood. 

“Oh-“

The champagne flute slips from his grasp in his shock, a bolt of terror ripping through him at his fault- Kamukura, of course, catches it swiftly without spilling a drop, but the bubbly liquid comes ever so close to sloshing out of the glass, and Komaeda’s stomach drops at the thought of spilling anything on the pristine silk of Kamukura’s gloves. 

“I’m sorry-“ he breathes out, a rush of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’m so horribly clumsy tonight. I don’t know-“ 

“It is fine.”

Komaeda blinks. 

“But I could have ruined your gloves.”

“You did not.” 

Kamukura steps away fleetingly to set the glass down, placing it on the nearby desk which is pressed up against one of the many bookshelves lining the wall. It’s a brief moment to breathe clearly, but then Kamukura is back in his space again, and Komaeda feels lightheaded. 

The gloves were never something he’d questioned. From day one, Kamukura had worn them for nearly every occasion.   
Being so close, Komaeda is privileged enough to be familiar with most of the pairs that Kamukura owns- leather, fur lined, lace, embroidered, velvet, most neatly kempt though a few are worn in only for dirty work- the particular ones he’s chosen for tonight are simple, black silk that go up only to his wrist. They leave a sliver of skin peeking out from under the cuff of his sleeve, and Komaeda shudders even just looking at the inch of flesh, let alone the thought of touching it. 

He knows Kamukura wouldn’t tolerate it. 

At least, not so early into the night. If Komaeda plays his cards correctly, he can sometimes earn permission. But it hasn’t been expressly given yet, so Komaeda can only look, only linger with his eyes. 

Kamukura pins him to the door with his stare for a few more beats of silence, and Komaeda looks to him for some semblance of guidance. He finds none, however, and then Kamukura withdraws, gesturing for him to move, sending him off to the side with a simple wave. 

Staying out of the way, Komaeda can do that much, has even become good at it by now. He practically scrambles into the center of the room, hovering uncertainly by the foot of the four poster canopy bed as Kamukura works. He heaves the dresser in front of the door, and the loveseat for good measure, pressed against it to bar anyone and everyone from entry. 

“Not in the mood to be disturbed tonight?” Komaeda asks him lightly, and his hand moves to his chest, intending to fiddle with his chain, only to remember it isn’t there. 

Kamukura dusts himself off. 

“No.” 

Quick to close the space between them, Komaeda barely has time to register the change of pace as Kamukura crosses the room, and hooks two fingers around the fabric of Komaeda’s bow tie, ripping it from his neck. He discards it on the floor and Komaeda is stuck hovering, half in shock to reel away, half to press himself closer. 

Kamukura makes the decision for him though, not letting him any space as he continues to undress Komaeda with haste. All the articles are treated with similar apathy as he tosses them to the floor, though not with the same level of disgust as he had the bow tie. 

Standing bare in front of Kamukura isn’t strange by now. He’s used to it, not as shameful as he used to be, or insistent upon hiding himself- but that’s because he knows Kamukura finds it annoying to deal with his self deprecation, and not because he has grown more comfortable in his skin. Still, half hard already, Komaeda trembles with anticipation as Kamukura’s fingers move down to undo his own belt, and he nearly sinks to his knees at the sight. 

Except, in the next movement, Kamukura has freed the belt from its loops, instead encircling it around Komaeda’s neck and tugging it hard through the buckle. 

Komaeda’s gasp is cut off as Kamukura effectively strangles him, digits flying up instinctively to pull at the leather wrapped around his neck. 

“This is what happens when I have to improvise,” Kamukura tells him, tugging him forward just a tad and he stumbles, sucking in a breath as he belt goes slack only momentarily. “Perhaps the next time you’re back in your collar, like you belong, I should accidentally lose the key. That way, not even Enoshima could take it from you. Tell me, would you like that?” 

Komaeda nods frantically. As best he can, anyway. 

Kamukura yanks, directs him to sitting on the edge of the bed, toes just barely reaching the floor with Kamukura standing between his parted knees. Everything in Komaeda is screaming to reach out, to twist his fingers into Kamukura’s clothes and pull him close, as greedily and tightly as he can. He knows better than to do that though, instead sinking his grip into the sheets below him- keeping his hands to himself as Kamukura has his way. 

He might feel an ounce of regret for wrinkling the nice fabric of the bed, but he knows the whole mansion is going to be trashed before the night is up, and frankly, he can’t bring himself to care when one of Kamukura’s hands begins to trail along his torso, the other still tightly gripping the belt, pulling it taut. 

The sensation of the silk against his bare chest makes Komaeda shudder, already slightly dazed and flushed from the lack of oxygen, he arches into the touch. 

Although the thin layer of fabric separating Kamukura’s skin from his own is frustrating, Komaeda doesn’t dare complain. It’s enough to feel Kamukura’s heat through the finely spun silk, more than enough for what scum like he deserves. 

Kamukura lets the belt go slack, at the same time tweaking one of Komaeda’s nipples, and the resulting inhale is more of a moan than anything else. 

And Kamukura lets him teeter like that. 

Idle touches that ebb and flow in their intensity, dancing up and down his chest, along his inner thighs, the steady pattern of Kamukura constricting and granting him airflow, Komaeda wishing for nothing more than for Kamukura’s fingernails to leave indents in his skin. Kamukura would never risk damaging his gloves for something as trivial as Komaeda’s physical urges, of course, and so the touches end up being far too gentle for his liking. 

Despite the tenderness laced within its cruelty, every graze, every pinch, every caress has Komaeda more and more wound up until he’s strung up so tightly, he feels as though he might tear at the seams. 

When Kamukura allows him to breathe once more, the belt loosening around his neck, Komaeda gasps, this time forming the word “please-“ on his lips, his cock straining desperately against his stomach. 

“Please, what?” 

“Please, touch me,” Komaeda begs. 

“I am.”

“Hah-“ Komaeda presses his thighs together when Kamukura tugs again, letting his free hand drift downward, and he has to wait for his breath to be restored before he can continue with his pathetic request. “More, please,” he wheezes. “I know it’s selfish, and you shouldn’t defile your hands by touching me, but _please_.” 

Kamukura withdraws, steadily silent as he considers it. Komaeda can feel every inch that Kamukura’s eyes on him, from his burning cheeks, trembling arms, down to the weeping, flushed head of his dick- it makes him shudder in anticipation. 

And it is not unlike being able to breathe again, an inhale of relief when Kamukura says

“Undress me.”

And Komaeda does. 

He always waits for Kamukura to present him with the explicit sign to move forward. Letting go of the belt, he extends his arms out, one at a time, fingers splayed and palms facing downward. This is when Komaeda knows it’s okay. 

He pinches the fabric of each fingertip, tugging on each just enough so that the whole glove wiggles loose, until he is able to slide it off with ease, taking his time because he is not unfamiliar with the way Kamukura often chides him with the reminder of “do not rush.”  
Offering them back to Kamukura like he always does, Komaeda dips his head, careful not to let their skin touch as he passes the gloves over and Kamukura takes them from him, folding them neatly and setting them off to the side. 

It’s meticulous work, peeling the layers of clothing off of Kamukura’s body without letting their skin make contact. His movements are practiced though, after having done this more times than he can count. He makes quick work of Kamukura’s tie, slides the blazer off of him, undoes the buttons of his shirt- until all his clothing litters the floor and Kamukura is just as bare as he is. 

“Can I?” Komaeda murmurs, searching Kamukura’s features for an answer and receiving in the form a small nod. 

Kamukura brings his knuckles up to the pout of Komaeda’s lips, who presses a gentle kiss to them, hardly able to contain the way he jolts at the privilege of being allowed to do so. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, letting himself be pressed backward into the mattress. 

One of Kamukura’s hands falls to the length of the belt wrapped around Komaeda’s neck again, the other he spits into, and with one knee up on the bed for leverage, he takes both dicks into his grasp. 

The reaction is instantaneous, Komaeda sucking in a sharp breath and arching up into the touch as Kamukura begins to stroke them in tandem. 

It shouldn’t be as intense as it is, but deprived of even the faintest hints of contact save for when they’re alone together, Komaeda can’t help the way he groans, the pads of Kamukura’s fingertips sending sparks throughout every nerve as he drags his thumb along Komaeda’s slit. 

His needy little keens are cut short when the belt tightens around his neck again, and all too eager to be at Kamukura’s mercy, Komaeda smiles up at him gratefully as best he can manage. That expression quickly crumbles in favor of his jaw going slack, mouth open in a breath he can’t take, eyes starting to flutter into the back of his head as the redness creeps into his face. It makes his toes curl, makes the slick movements against his dick push him further along than, really, is reasonable. Or maybe that’s just Kamukura. 

A gasp tears from his throat when it is finally able to escape, and Kamukura takes the opportunity to start rolling his hips languidly to meet his own thrusts, Komaeda following in his lead. 

“Ah-“ 

His lungs are burning, head starting to throb with the exertion, even though Kamukura is doing all the work. Komaeda lets out a pitiful whine, trying to match the pace Kamukura has set but finding it hard to do as he grows dizzy, spots creeping into his vision. 

“I’m-“ he tries to communicate it, the urgency in a single strangled word- Kamukura pulls the belt taut one final time as Komaeda can feel himself climbing closer and closer to his own end. 

“Wait for it,” Kamukura says as he leans down, his nose tracing the line of Komaeda’s jaw.   
In one swift moment, the snapping of a rubber band, Kamukura lets the belt loose, tells him “come,” and sinks his teeth into the soft skin there. 

It rips through Komaeda like a tidal wave, on his inhale he breaks, arching up and losing himself to the feeling entirely. He’s heaving in lungfuls of oxygen, never seeming to get enough, eyes shut tightly and every limb trembling as his orgasm renders him practically useless, cum spilling over Kamukura’s hand and onto his stomach. 

Kamukura guides him through the last of it, pumping slowly until Komaeda is lucid enough to flinch away in oversensitivity, and only then does he withdraw his hands. 

The loss of contact pulls a sound of displeasure from Komaeda, but it is weak, lost to the vast air of the room. Kamukura hears it, surely, but he still retreats. Komaeda is too dazed to complain. Too dazed, and much too obedient. So he resigns himself to his position, a sprawled pile of limbs on the bed as he tries to regain his wind, only finally propping himself up on his elbows when he has the strength to do so. He looks over to find that the light in the attached bathroom has been flicked on, the sound of running water filling his ears. 

“Did you…” he trails off, taking in a deep breath and blinking in an attempt to recall the sequence of events that had just left him stunned. Kamukura steps out from the bathroom, not paying any mind as Komaeda puts his thoughts together. There’s a rustling of fabric. “Did you not-?”

He is answered by the sound of a sharp snap, Kamukura pulling on the pair of black rubber gloves he’d fished out of the inside pocket of his blazer, the material conforming to his skin as he tugs it on. 

“I’m not finished with you.” 

A small laugh bubbles out of Komaeda as Kamukura starts to cross the room, closing in on him, and he sighs.   
“Of course, someone as useless as me couldn’t even reciproc-“

“If that was what I desired, I would have told you so. You know I have no issue in doing that,” He comes to stand between Komaeda’s parted thighs, opening the bottle of lube in his hand with a snap. “Scoot back.” 

Komaeda does as he is instructed, shuffling himself backward further onto the bed. His neck is still sore, and knowing Kamukura’s strength, it will be for days, but he’s regained enough sense of clarity that the thoughts of his inadequacy threaten to take over once more.   
The nitrile gloves are a barrier between them, both literally and figuratively, and Komaeda swallows down the lump in his throat at the guilt of knowing he’d so willingly traded his collar for a bow tie- a silly little strip of insignificant fabric, and that is why Kamukura’s touches feel so cold and impersonal. 

The smooth texture of the gloves is hardly satisfying in comparison to having Kamukura’s heated flesh, pressed flush against his own, but he bends without any resistance as Kamukura pushes on the back of his thigh, spreading him wider.   
He shivers as a gloved finger, slicked in chilled lube, begins to press against his entrance, and he throws his head back onto the bed with a soft groan, eyes turned upward toward the ceiling. 

“I really am sorry,” he tells Kamukura, though the apology wasn’t prompted, he can’t help the words from spilling as it feels like Kamukura is picking him apart under his gaze, stretching him open and coaxing it out of him. 

“For what?” 

“For letting her take it from me. For giving it up without a fight,” Komaeda laughs, short and watery. “It shouldn’t even be second guessed. Everyone should be able to tell I’m loyal to you by just looking, and I- ngh- I failed.” 

“You’re giving her what she wants, you know,” Kamukura murmurs, pressing a second finger inside. “By letting it drive a stake in your heart, by despairing over it.”

Komaeda wheezes. 

“I know.” 

He’s begun to rock his hips idly to meet the shallow thrusting of Kamukura’s fingers- the motions are calculating, mechanical, Kamukura making no effort to hit that sweet spot inside of him. Which, admittedly, is probably for the best. Komaeda is only just regaining full capacity of his breath, disorientation subsiding, and he’s still too sensitive to be anything more than half hard. 

That’s okay for now though, he reasons with himself, fingertips coming up to trace at the indents left in his neck from the belt, drifting up to the set of teeth marks Kamukura had left there. This way, he can focus on bending to Kamukura’s will entirely, serving him as diligently as possible, instead of being rendered a trembling, incoherent mess. 

He fiddles with the belt buckle loosely where it rests atop his adam’s apple, thumbing the metal and falling into rhythm again as Kamukura adds a third finger, stretching him out. 

The pace must become too monotonous for Kamukura though, and not longer after, he withdraws his fingers, and the emptiness brings Komaeda back to the present. 

As Kamukura climbs onto the bed, sitting with his legs outstretched and propping himself against the headboard, Komaeda doesn’t need any verbal orders to follow. Body language and gestures are enough for him to heave himself up and situate himself in Kamukura’s lap, legs trembling as he’s granted a nod and he sinks himself down onto Kamukura’s cock. 

With how well Kamukura had stretched him, it doesn’t even hurt, though Komaeda wishes it would. Just a little pain, to distract from the fact that the only place his skin is touching Kamukura’s own is where they’re connected, and where the insides of his thighs brush the outside of Kamukura’s, ever so slightly as he begins to move. That knowledge hurts more, in a way physical pain never could. That he’s allowed to be this close, but still, Kamukura is keeping him at distance despite it. 

Normally, he wouldn’t mind, but it’s because he knows it’s a test of what he wishes was unwavering loyalty, that he wants to adhere himself to Kamukura’s side and never let go. 

Taking the reins, Kamukura reaches out to grip the belt again, tugging it back and forth, up and down, guiding Komaeda’s motions in the way he fucks himself onto Kamukura’s cock, forcing him to follow, lest he strangle himself. 

It starts to be truly satisfying when Kamukura rolls his hips up to meet Komaeda’s down thrusts, pressing inside him just right. Komaeda’s mouth hangs open, drool pooling at the corners. 

A loud crashing sound from downstairs is more than enough to startle him out of it, though. 

Komaeda stiffens, whipping his head around to the door, but Kamukura redirects his attention, tugging on the lead. 

“Chandelier,” he explains simply, entirely unphased and Komaeda nods. Right- right. He had been warned about that. 

Kamukura, endlessly benevolent, lets him fall back into rhythm without addressing his fumble. Though they’re away from all the guests, he knows Komaeda is easily frazzled in noisy places, as evidenced by how he’d nearly sent the champagne spilling out onto the floor earlier. So he lets it pass without comment, his free hand finding its way to Komaeda’s hip, thumb dragging over the prominence of the bone there. 

It would be so much easier if Kamukura were to vent his displeasure with his servant’s actions full force, Komaeda thinks.   
It would be so much easier if Kamukura were to strike him, cut off the blood supply to his brain and fuck him senseless into the mattress. This sort of contained rage puts Komaeda on edge, makes him consider the weight of every movement, every breath- which, he supposes, is more of a punishment than anything else. To be hyper aware of his own flaws, to draw them out agonizingly, one by one. 

Komaeda tries to quicken the pace, shifting his hips down onto Kamukura’s dick with a bit more urgency, forcing out needy, strangled whines past his own chapped lips. 

Something keeps him stuck there. 

Every thrust, every yank, every time he manages to sink down so far it lights sparks inside of him, none of it seems to be able to push him past the tipping point. He wonders if Kamukura is capable of controlling something like that within him. That maybe it’s the mental anguish of letting him down again that keeps it at bay. 

“What’s wrong?” Kamukura punctuates his question with a particularly sharp thrust and Komaeda groans. They’re both aware Kamukura already knows the answer to that, but if dragging it painstakingly out of Komaeda is what will finally let the coil inside of him snap, that’s more than alright. 

“It’s not enough,” Komaeda shakes his head, tears of frustration welling up in the corners of his eyes. “I need your hand. I need you.”

“And why wouldn’t your own hand suffice?” Kamukura’s gaze is piercing. “You’re not allowed to touch me, but there is nothing barring you from touching yourself.”

Komaeda chokes. 

“I need _you_ ,” he begs, still shifting his hips desperately, tilting his chin up to emphasize the marks around his neck, the ones Kamukura put there, the asphyxiation more satisfying than anything else. “I need to be yours. To serve you. N- nobody else,” he groans. “Just you. I just need you. Please, Kamukura-“ 

“Are you not already mine?”

Komaeda nods frantically. 

“I always have been,” he pleads. “I always will be.” 

And that seems to be enough. 

Kamukura brings his free hand up to his mouth, tearing the nitrile glove off with his teeth and flinging it off to the side. Brings his hand around Komaeda’s aching cock and strokes him firmly, intent on making him come, the other tugging on the belt to bring Komaeda to a bow, pressing their lips together in a kiss made of desperation and fury. 

That’s all it takes to send him spiraling, and Komaeda seizes, gasping as his orgasm finally crashes over him. He’s complete and quivering and full as Kamukura rolls his hips up into him a few more times before he stutters, releasing into Komaeda as he reaches his own end as well. 

It leaves Komaeda winded, heart hammering in his chest, too uncoordinated to do anything but slump against Kamukura when all is said and done, too out of it to care about smearing the mess on his stomach between them. 

Eventually, his senses come back to him. The ruckus from downstairs finally reaching his ears, now more panic than complacent chatter, the belt digging uncomfortably into his neck, the unpleasant sensation of drying semen between them. But Komaeda lets himself linger for just a little longer, knowing that if Kamukura truly abjected to it, it wouldn’t be happening. Out of fear of being an inconvenience, he forces himself upright again, wipes the drool and tears from his face with the heel of his palm. 

“Thank you,” Komaeda manages, tiredly eyeing the way Kamukura discards his other glove, frees Komaeda’s neck from the belt, and traces the indents there with the pad of his thumb before even thinking to acknowledge Komaeda at all. 

He lifts Komaeda off of him by the thighs, accustomed to the sensation of his soft cock slipping out, unbothered by the mess made between them, because he has no intention of sleeping tonight, not in a place like this, that is doomed to go up in flames and not for a second should he let his guard down. 

“We will wash up and then go back downstairs,” Kamukura tells him, slipping off the bed and padding over to the bathroom, where Komaeda follows on unsteady legs. “This place is large but we cannot evade her forever.” 

“Right,” Komaeda nods, leaning his weight against the wall for support as Kamukura starts up the water to fill up the large clawfoot tub. 

It’s not meant for two people, Komaeda realizes when they both finally sink into the hot water, steam rising off the surface. But he hardly pays any mind to that. Any excuse to be pressed against Kamukura, he’ll take gladly, as a luxury he isn’t often granted. It rinses the grime and sweat from their bodies, settles his nerves, lounging in the tub he nearly dozes off. 

A gentle tap from Kamukura stirs him. 

“People are coming upstairs to seek refuge. I predict a few of them will come this way, but I’ve barricaded the door sufficiently.”

“Oh-?” 

Komaeda strains his ears, though he doesn’t hear the distant footsteps until a few moments later, rapidly approaching until they stop to rattle the handle of the door. But true to Kamukura’s word, they must not be able to budge it, and the quickly fleeing footsteps indicate they’ve given up. 

“That will be our cue to go,” Kamukura moves to stand and Komaeda follows suit, regrettably so. The warm water is nice, far more appealing than the thought of stuffing himself back into that suit, making their way through what is more than likely a mob rioting by now, rather than a crowd of pleasant party guests. 

If he’s by Kamukura’s side, though, it can’t be too bad. 

They pick their scattered clothes up off the floor, and before Komaeda can even begin dressing himself, Kamukura is there in front of him, tugging the garments over his body with a practiced ease. It isn’t soft, it isn’t gentle, but it is far preferable to the way Enoshima had vested him before the start of the evening. 

Once he is dressed, Kamukura heaves the barricade furniture away from the door, picking up the forgotten champagne glass on their way out and pouring the now flat liquid down his throat. 

The hallway carpet is muddied with blood now, the gold trimmed paintings in the hall askew- there is danger in this place, as there had been the moment Enoshima set foot in the manor. Only now it is more loud, more violent, dead bodies littering the stairs, foam seeping from their mouths- it makes Komaeda want to twist his fingers into the back of Kamukura’s blazer, not to be lost in the sea of corpses. But Kamukura’s silk gloves are on, the walls are back up, and Komaeda knows much better now. 

And he realizes, fingers coming up idly to trace the fading marks around his throat, that Kamukura had, decidedly, neglected to fasten the bow tie around his neck. 


End file.
